


Scars

by WritingsOfAHobbit



Series: Thranduil/Reader Stories [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, F/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingsOfAHobbit/pseuds/WritingsOfAHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine Thranduil finding you unconscious in the hall from blood loss due to self harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on imaginexhobbit
> 
> WARNING/TRIGGER: Self-Harm

You know that you’ve made a mistake. You know from the second that you see the blood bead on your wrist.

 _Oh God, there is so much blood_.

It runs from your wrist into the basin in rivulets of crimson, the stinging pain shooting all the way up to your shoulder. This isn’t like before. This isn’t the slight, controllable bleeding. You’ve gone too deep. You’ve cut the artery of your wrist.

Panic and fear overcomes you as death rears its ugly head.

_This isn’t supposed to happen._

An hour ago, you were ready to die. Now, faced with rapidly approaching death, your aren’t so sure.

You throw the small knife away, not caring as you hear it shatter a mirror. You need help.

Your vision is already burring and going dark around the edges as you stumble from your home. You feel sick, cold and clammy.

The blood continues to run, dripping off your fingers and spotting onto the floor. Through the panic and the fear your brain pulls up to pieces of information; pressure and elevate.

With trembling fingers you press against the cut, trying to stem the bleeding. You stumble, reaching out to steady yourself. Using your hand to navigate the halls, you press your injured wrist to your chest. The blood quickly soaks through the fabric, crimson blossoming across your bodice.

You don’t know where your feet are taking you. You cannot think straight. It feels as though your underwater, your hearing muffled. You think you hear voices shouting and heavy footsteps behind you, but a glance over your shoulder reveals an empty corridor.

Your stomach turns over and you pause to retch, what little dinner you ate making a reappearance. You take a few more steps before your feet give out from under you, your vision fading completely. You hit the floor with a thud, but you feel nothing.

X

The guards that stumble across blood droplets on the floor are quick to raise the alarm. One rushes back the way that they came, to find a healer and alert the King. Two draw their swords and hastily follow the blood trail, whilst the final steps inside the home.

He follows the blood to the bathroom, where a terrible sight greets him. The basin is smeared with blood which drips onto the floor. There is a smeared, bloody handprint on the wall. A blood-coated dagger rests on the floor below a shattered mirror.

The elf jumps to the conclusion of a struggle, but a closer inspection reveals something worse; the victim was the only person in the room. Whoever lived here had done this to themselves.

He turned on his heel, arriving at the entrance just as the King does. Quickly the guard explains everything. “Do you know the tenant of these quarters, my Lord?” the guard questions, but the King has already moved on.

It is rare that King Thranduil shows emotion, but the fear is written plainly on his face. He moves so swiftly through the halls it is as though his is running. He quickly catches up to the two guards who had pressed on, surpassing them and rounding the corner.

He freezes, face turning as white as his face, before he darts forwards to kneel at the side of a fallen figure.

The King seems blind to his surrounding as he kneels in a small pool of blood. He draws the figure onto his lap, exposing a pale, clammy face. Tender fingers draw a wrist from the floor, haunted eyes taking in a deep cut that it still bleeding.

“Hiwon!” he commands, and a healer hurries forwards. Hiwon sidesteps a puddle of vomit, coming to kneel next to the king.

The wound he is faced with is similar to one he has seen in war, and he wastes no time in patching it. “It needs stitching and proper care, My Lord.”

Thranduil nods, scooping the unconscious elf into his arms and cradling them close to his chest. “Clean up this mess.” He commands his waiting guard. “Leave no trace that this ever happened. You shall never speak of it.”

He turns and hurries back down the corridor, Hiwon close on his heels. Already the blood is seeping through the tight bandage and onto his tunic. Time is running out for the elf that he cradles so dearly.

X

The blackness eventually lifts, taking with it the deafness and heavy-headedness that you feel. In its place is pain. The pain radiates from your wrist, up your arm and across your chest and neck to your head.

Yet the rest of you is surprisingly comfortable. You rest on something warm and soft, and through the pain of your hand you note that it is warm.

It is a struggle to open your eyes, and when you manage it you find your surroundings are unfamiliar. Above you is a canopy of silver, green and red fabric, strung over struts of oak wood.

It takes you a moment to realise that you are in a bed. With great effort you turn your head to see that the fabric falls down the sides of the bedposts too. Beyond that is a desk, a wardrobe, and everything else you would find in a bedroom. Except there is something about these things that say that their owner is of great importance. They are made of expensive metals and wood, carved and decorated elaborately.

As the pain in your wrist fades, you realise that something warm is holding your injured hand. You turn your head towards it and find the owner of the bedroom watching you closely.

If you had the energy, you would recoil in horror. For it is Thranduil, _King_ Thranduil, who is holding your hand.

You are in _his bed_ , in a weak and embarrassing state.

You want to apologise, make an excuse and leave, flee from these halls and indeed Mirkwood itself, and never return. Yet you’re incapable of making a sound.

His blue eyes scan your face, pain and something unfamiliar written across his usually expressionless face.

The hand that holds your is caressing your knuckles gently, whilst the other smooths your forearm.

Your _exposed_ forearm.

You panic and try to pull away from him. All these centuries that you’ve held your secret, the care that you’ve taken to hide it from the world, and they are on show for the only elf you could _never_ tell.

“Please.” He speaks, his voice quiet and broken. “You don’t need to hide.”

He lets your hand go, allowing you to draw it close to your body, to shield your scarred arms from his sight. “Please, don’t hide from me.”

When you make no attempt to return your hand to his hold he sits back and sighs in defeat. He looks tired as he rubs his hands over his face, and you can suddenly name the expression on his face; heartbreak.

It is an expression you have seen in the mirror many times.

Your voice is sore and catches in your throat when you eventually speak. “Why am I here?”

Thranduil looks up at you. That question has a hundred different meanings, and you mean each and every one.

“Because your life worth saving.” He replies without missing a beat, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. “You are not worthless, as you believe yourself to be. There are some in these halls who love you very dearly, and would see you live through this.”

Thranduil leans forwards again and rests his hand on the bed beside you, palm up in invitation.

“I would see that your life is saved, and that this stops for good. No elf is deserving of the pain and the torment that you have inflicted on yourself over the centuries.”

“I am deserving.” You say quietly, as you have every time you took a blade to your skin.

“ _No_!” Thranduil’s anger is gone as quickly as it appears. “You _don’t_ deserve this!” he says, a note of pleading in his voice. “You are not deserving of those scars. You are deserving of friendship, safety, loyalty and love.” He pauses. “I would prefer to face Mordor in all its horror alone, than to ever see you in such a state again. Do you know how close you came to death? I found you, carried you, and watched you. I – I thought…” Thranduil’s voice breaks and you think he may be crying, but he ducks your head before you can be certain.

“Please,” you reach out and tentatively take his hand, “don’t cry for me. I’m not worth-“

“You are worth every tear that I shed over you, every minute that I spend worrying about you. You are worth every thought that I spare you, every breath that I take for you. You are worth the protection and the security that I try to provide for you. You are worth _everything_.”

His words wrap themselves around your heart and the tears start to well up again. It has been so long since anyone has told you that you are worth something. _Anything._ It has been so long since someone saw your scars and has not recoiled. Even you struggle to find the strength to look at them.

Yet here sits Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, holding your hand and telling you that you are worth it all.

He leans forwards with a small smile and wipes away the tears and maybe, just maybe, you can get through this. 


End file.
